Author's Note: No idea how this happened, but I do press the issue that this is an R- rated fiction for a reason. If you do not like sexual references, references to violence of any kind, or graphic scenes of any other adult content, I suggest you leave right now.

As always, 'blah' is dream sequence or flashback. Basically a mental happening, not a physical or reality-based one. Usually for dreams, I'll use present tense and for flashbacks I'll use the past tense. I'll try to remember to keep reminding people anyway.

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"Jareth…"

That voice again. She always uses just that voice. It teases him so horribly to hear just that tone, as if she knows a secret and is ready to hold it over his head for her own amusement.

He turns his head and there. There she is. Perfect in the sunlight.

Naturally, logic tells him that this is impossible. It is night. The sun, even in the Underground, is incapable of shining at night. But she is there in the sun- pale and curvy and soft and welcoming.

He can't help smiling at her, seeing those green eyes glitter mischievously at him as she boldly lets her fingers thread through his shirt. Another little fantastical idiosyncrasy! Since when has he ever worn a shirt to bed? Ah, yes, now he remembers; since that delightful day he learned how wonderful it was to be undressed by her nimble fingers. Always ink-stained, that right hand. But the ink has dried and it leaves not a mark on anything.

"What's wrong, Goblin King? Cat got your tongue?" She sticks her own tongue out at him and laughs in his face. A sudden movement and she's straddling him, naked and glorious as a Goddess in heat. That tender look of hunger and neediness on her face.

He knows that look. It's the one she always uses when she comes on to him. A rare thing, to see his Sarah look so wanton. Not like the honeymoon, which was a complete disaster for she would always insist that the lights be turned off. And he hadn't had the heart to trick her just so he could satisfy himself. She had been only eighteen. Now she looks older, and regal even, as she goads him with her hips, drawing a sound from his tongue that is not a groan so much as a cry for help.

"One day, woman," he grates, fingers closing on her beautifully wide hips, "One day you will break me with all this teasing."

"Break the Goblin King? Oh, how awful!" She leans forward, taking that grinding contact away from the part of him that aches for it. A horrendous enough state of affairs, but now she looks serious, her sensuality put away for her loving concern. "Should I stop, Jareth? Not tonight? I can stop, you know."

And again, how can he refuse her? Nothing. The stars, the world… they are all playthings for her dearest hands just so he can know she is happy, just for her, because that is what love is- the fireworks and the thunder and the sparks that race along their arms whenever they touch. And so he feels his heart pull his body from that blanketing darkness, firing him instantly even though he would never have thought it was possible a minute ago.

No more sleep now, no more clothing. And she fits so well with him! Every time and he still gasps and trembles when he slides in for the first time. The same way that her eyes shut and her head falls back. He'd like to rest, to take things slow, but she needs something more and again his heart pushes his body to perform. Not that it's any kind of a chore. By this point it's an automatic response.

Sarah moans in his ear, in his mouth, into thin air, clutching at his back, his shoulders, his hair, even daringly at his hips as she draws nearer. Pulling him in deeper and longer, faster and harder, wanting and taking and somehow giving so much more because the way she shamelessly enjoys him makes it more pleasurable for him.

And when it's over, his body protests. His heart tells it to shut up, reminds it that it would do much worse for the warm body that continues to caress it. And even his body agrees. Madness, that is what this is, madness and obsession, but oh, he could no longer hope to fight it than he could hope to wish it gone. If it were a fatal illness he would still accept it.

"Jareth?"

He strokes her arm and hums against her hair, telling her he is still awake and listening. The soft crush of her breasts against his side is vaguely distracting, and oddly reassuring. It makes it more real, to feel that discomfort and know he doesn't mind it.

"Jareth, do you mind very much?"

"About what, Sarah?"

"That Toby doesn't look like me?"

A strange question and Jareth starts. Even for a dream, this is surreal. None of his fantasies have ever asked him soul-searching questions before. Why now? Was it so important? Couldn't he just enjoy his fantasies without reality intruding?

"Sarah, I have no idea what you mean."

"You do, Jareth. You saw him and you were disappointed. You wanted him to look like me. Why?"

Why, indeed. "It was just the surprise. I knew he didn't look very much like you, but after years of thinking of him as your brother, I had hoped. Perhaps with a few of your features?"

"Oh. I thought you were going to replace me."

Odder and odder. Jareth doesn't like this dream. He tightens his arm around his Sarah, sheltering her, binding her, anchoring her- and himself- to this one moment. Leaning close to smell her hair and kiss the tangled strands. "I could never replace you, even by your twin, should you have one."

"Thank you." She seems to settle down.

Jareth waits for the next question. He knows Sarah. He knows it will come.

"What if he had looked like me?"

"It still would not be you, Sarah. Let me sleep."

She lifts her head, thumps him in the chest, and then composedly puts her head back down on the bruised spot as he hisses and jerks at the blow.

"Alright, alright. But only if you stop assaulting my person," he growls, pushing her away to rub at his chest, "I would not replace him with you. He doesn't look like you and even if he did, I would not take him in your stead because he is not you. He doesn't think like you, act like you, talk like you."

"Oh." This time she does settle down, curling onto her side and her green eyes blinking at him.

"Will that satisfy you, Sarah? Are there more confessions you would like to beat out of me?" He really isn't going to let her forget that.

"Not tonight, Jareth. Did you like him?"

"He seems well enough."

"I didn't ask if he looked healthy, I asked if you liked him," Sarah says archly. Yanking the covers up and snuggling under them.

"And I said he seems well enough. I haven't seen Toby for fourteen years, either by his decision or by mine. I kept him safe as you asked. I kept him happy, knowing that you would want me to. What more can you demand of me?"

"The world," Sarah reminds him dreamily, "The stars. The sun. The very moon itself to be ripped from the sky and strung on a chain just for me to wear."

"All that and more, Sarah. Anything you want."

"You loved me so much?"

"I love you still."

Sunlight and dappled shadows. He doesn't know where they come from and why there is overhead sunlight and dappled tree shadows in his bedroom, but he knows better than to question. This is a dream. He aches only in a dream and he loves her gently only in a dream and in a dream it has to stay. There is no other way for them. Not that he cares; dream or reality, in the Wishing Land the distinctions tend to blend too deeply.

A finger touches his lips and he kisses it, simply because it's there and it's sweet and he wants to.

Sarah's lopsided grin and the way she just lies there and watches him, perfectly content to think her own thoughts and lose herself where he cannot follow. And so he sleeps, his senses disturbed and heightened by her fixed observations, but not unpleasantly so.

Sleep…

Waking to emptiness and pre-dawn darkness.

Jareth looked around his room with a heavy sigh and pushed back the covers. He negligently pulled off his trousers and tossed them to the floor beside his bed.

His bed. It was a plain, though beautifully made and maintained, structure. The mattress was not unduly soft or unduly thick. The pillows were neither too numerous or Spartan. It was a comfortable bed made for comfort and sleeping. No silk sheets or velvet drapes were used here. Only cool cotton and crisp linen.

The state of the bed echoed his room- neat, simple, comfortable and made for utility by a pleasing hand. The wood was of the best, but no mythical or misty figure tainted the smooth-grained planes. The bed, the tables by his bed, the vanity in the corner, the chest at the foot of the bed, the window seat, the cupboard for his personal effects and even the door to his wardrobe that was set into the wall- all were of the same wood and the same simple craftsmanship. No paintings or wall-hangings marred the warmth of the wood panelling, just as no curtains or blinds marred the views from his window.

Jareth sat up in bed and swept his hair off his shoulders and up into a ponytail. He was tired, there was no doubt; the fantasy had been a very bitterly sweet one. Long ago he had learned not to question why he always dreamt of her as she would have been, how he had manipulated his mind into living the lie in dreams of an alternate universe in which she had allowed him to heal her.

Logically, he knew even he would not have been able to heal her. No one could have but Sarah herself, and Sarah hadn't wanted to. So the pills had been her cowardice as much as her only viable option. Yet what did logic have to do with love, he always sighed, when was life itself never logical? Those who thought in turns of logic were always ill-prepared for the best parts of life.

The dawn began to break.

Jareth heard a sound and frowned slightly. Had he not known better, he would suspect someone of creeping around outside his bedroom door. Another assassination attempt, was it? He drew the sword from its scabbard in the holder on the post of the bed and got slowly to his feet. He was undressed, it was true, but modesty was the least of his worries between life and death.

And yet… he looked from his sword to his door and got back into bed, laying the weapon across his lap, where he could get to it should he need to. Settling his back against the wooden headboard, he steeled himself and raised his voice. "If you are quite finished failing to be secretive, would you care to make yourself known?"

No answer. Movements froze. They had almost been past his door on the other side. Was he mistaken? Was there harm for someone else? His eyes narrowed.

"I know there is someone just beyond my door. Believe me when I say it's the work of a moment to discover your identity in a crystal if you will not enter."

The door handle turned and his left hand found the reassuring weight of the hilt. The door opened and a shock of severely restrained blond hair poked itself in, followed by a rueful smile and a pair of green eyes.

"I am sorry, Jareth. I didn't mean to wake you," Jervohl offered, "Good morning, however." She looked genuinely astonished when she saw the sword across her relieved brother's lap.

The Goblin King looked pointedly at his window, where dawn was not yet breaking. "Not," he huffed, "for another twenty minutes at least. For some of us, it is still the middle of the night."

"Really? Well, some of us- who don't sleep with swords in our beds, might I add- like to wake up early so we can get some practise done with the swords that have been so neglected all night."

Jareth raised an eyebrow as he looked up from putting the sword back in its scabbard. In truth, he was thankful not to have to use it. He was a fair enough swordsman, but probably not good enough for an assassin. People seemed to think he warranted the best, when really an averagely good one would do as well. He made a note to include it in any public speech he made next; it wouldn't do to overprice someone for his death.

"Jareth? Are you alright? You look tired." The woman came further into the room though she stood only a few steps into the doorway.

Jareth shook his head and shrugged. "Not a restful sleep," he admitted, "Too heavy and too… intense. I woke up feeling worse than last night."

"You know what the problem is?" Jervohl said. She put her hands to her hips as she stared knowingly at the fae male, "You don't get enough exercise. You just lounge from one seat to another and one mild walk to another and at the most you rouse yourself to shout at someone. It isn't healthy."

"No? How terrible for me." Jareth settled back with a snort and a challenge in his eyes. Not enough exercise, it seemed! As if he were a little child all over again and his tutor had lectured him on the proper amounts of time he should spent in rapid activity in a day. The next request made him stop and reconsider.

"Yes, isn't it. Since you are awake, and you seem to be spoiling for a chance to use that pretty blade in a way you probably haven't since Rumpole passed to the afterlife, I propose a friendly duel between us two."

"Duel? As if we were children all over again? Not likely."

"Why not? What will you do when I go down to practise, Jareth- sit in bed and brood? What will I do if I go down for practise- swipe at thin air? It gets annoying after a while. Besides, I still owe you for- for the reason I cursed you."

"Ah. You have not forgiven me."

"Forgiveness is not required. It happened."

Mismatched eyes looked at her queerly, with a strange light in their depths. "Don't ever underestimate the ability to forgive, my dear. I can understand if you cannot, but I would still like to know that you understand I meant no harm by it. I was carried away." He could add that he had literally been carried away- into bed- by someone he'd gotten drunk with and who'd seemed to be making love to him so matter-of-factly that he hadn't thought to question the wisdom. He wouldn't ever say that.

"Be that as it may, I neither seek forgiveness nor offer it. Actions have their consequences and they are the strange pattern of this tapestry we call life," Jervohl laughed, her voice light.

The Goblin King hesitated, one hand on the covers, his eyes looked longingly at the sunrise just breaking on the dawn. The simplicity of a good duel might well be what he needed to exhaust his mind and relax the tension in his muscles.

"Jareth, perhaps you can think of this duel as a way for me to seek some form of closure?" his sister offered, "Think of it as seeking forgiveness. With the end of the duel, you may take it as granted that all residual resentment and hurt will be cleared up."

"Why is that?"

She moved for the door, dramatic as ever for her leave-taking. "Because I will have beaten you to the ground. Coming, Sire?"

The Goblin King waited for his sister to leave the room, a thoughtful smile hovering on the corners of his lips. Spiteful little minx! Oh, but he had missed his little sister. The fights and the laughter; she was family and he had missed her brightness. He could only imagine how her life had changed for her to be up at dawn, religiously practising with her weapons even though she had no more need to carry them. And for that and more he did feel guilt.

"Very well, then. Let us see her go head-to-head with you, shall we?" He lifted the sword from its wooden holder beside his bed and held it, a gentle hand running over the leather scabbard in a way they hadn't done for too long. Far too long. All of a sudden, with a sudden resurgence of laughing green eyes and love, he smiled broadly and brought the weapon's hilt to his lips, laughing at himself as he did so. "Come, then, lovely one, and win for me."